


Once On His Right

by crewdlydrawn



Series: The Left and the Right [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anxiety, Bucky in Bucharest, Bucky on the run, Bucky's POV, Companion Piece, Headspace, M/M, Panic Attacks, Short, Subverting Civil War plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 10:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10661106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn
Summary: Steve and Sam find Bucky while he is still trying to find himself.  Though Bucky knows Steve, now, the ring on his finger is a startling reminder that their lives have not taken the same path.





	Once On His Right

Two men were in the space Bucky had claimed as his own.  Only two, no others waiting nearby to follow suit or to capture.  One, Bucky had seen in the SHIELD files, and had fought on the helicarrier. 

The other was Steve.

__________

Contrary to the warnings he had received over the decades, it had been all too easy for the Asset to disappear.  When the time came, no one followed him.  At first.

Before long, recovering from the damage done by the man on the bridge, remnants of Hydra had come to claim their property.  None returned to report their failures.  After enough movement and time, it had become quiet at last.

Only one trip to the museum had been necessary.  Even casual glances traced the images permanently into his enhanced short-term memory, now allowed to function properly without regular erasure.  Public internet access filled in many blanks not concerned with him—once-secret records of the agency he’d attacked released wholesale to the public.  That and skimmed books had told him about Steve Rogers, and also about a man it seems he once used to be. 

                _James Buchanan Barnes._

The name came swimming back to him, floating in front of his vision at inopportune moments, echoing in his mind at night, staring at his face in the mirror.

_Bucky._

Memories followed, snaking out from the center of what he’d read and seen before leaving, dividing and branching like veins into his consciousness.  He wrote them all down, hiding inside of an abandoned apartment, a safe and concrete capture of his unreliable recovery.  A year had passed since the bridge.

Another found its way forward, and by its close, Bucky felt, if not that he knew himself, that he _had_ a self to be eventually known.  He knew he was Bucky.  He knew who Bucky had been.  He knew who Steve was.  And then suddenly, before he was ready, Steve was there.

__________

They hadn’t seen him yet, or heard his approach.  Good; it was better that way.  But he was in the room, and they would notice eventually.

The man with the wings—retracted, somehow, now—turned first, surprised but unstartled, reaching to tap the backs of his fingers against Steve’s arm to get his attention.

In Steve’s hands was Bucky’s journal, open to where he had left the bookmarking strap—a photo of ‘Captain America’, which had been much more readily available than one of the man, himself.  It was fitting, anyway, as the two had arrived in uniform, probably expecting a fight.  Staying silent, he held his ground, close enough to both a window and the door to be able to make it, should he need to.  His mind calculated the time he’d need, their distance, the space, which objects would block their way, all in the space of a breath, the breath Steve took before speaking.

“Do you know me?”

 _Well, that’s a fucking loaded question, pal._   The thought remaining unvoiced, and Bucky’s eyes flicked between Steve’s and the other man’s, weighing the benefits of honesty.  “You’re Steve.”  Blue eyes that had been tightly trained on his own began to soften.  Too soon.  “I read about you in a museum.”

Small movements in the third man’s jaw were perceptible even to Bucky’s peripheral vision, and he could sense the tension there, the doubt.  Even so, Bucky had little hope Steve would leave empty-handed.

“I know you’re scared,” Steve had begun, squaring his shoulders with Bucky’s body, but remaining across the floor, his feet framing the floorboards under which Bucky’s only necessary belongings lay. 

Bucky’s jaw twitched.

One gloved hand held up the journal. “But you’re lying.”  A dozen arguments flew through Bucky’s mind, but each one seemed a waste of time with that stubborn chin opposing them. 

“What he means is,” interrupted the other voice, its tone deeper, smoother, “he’s pretty sure you remember more than what the museum told you.”  Small tells in the man’s stance and expression easily gave away _his_ position on whether Bucky remembered anything.

He must have shifted defensively, more than he’d planned, because Steve’s hands rose, setting the journal down slowly on the countertop, before removing the masked helmet over his head, and his gloves, placing them aside.  “Bucky…”

Bucky’s right foot slid backward in time with Steve’s left advancing, and both of them paused again. 

_Five steps back to the door.  Three to the window.  The mattress to the left, the folding table to the right._

Steve’s hands shifted again, palms exposed, fingers raised to emphasize a nonthreatening presence. 

_Could slide to the left, around the counter.  Break the floorboards, grab the bag, out the window.  Glint of gold.  Over the balcony, drop do—_

Eyes shifting sharply from holding Steve’s line of sight, Bucky focused on the upturned fingers, one in particular.  A simple gold band sat on his left hand’s fourth finger, and something undefined twisted in Bucky’s gut.

“You should go.”  Swallowing with difficulty, Bucky worked to keep the sinking feeling from connecting to his face, from being visible, but could tell it was failing.  He needed time to regain control.

Blond brows shifted, sharp eyes searching a moment before settling on his own hands, though he couldn’t possibly—

Thumb crossing his palm to shift the band around its finger, Steve glanced towards it before looking at the other man, then back to Bucky.  “Buck…”

 _Why would he look over?  It’s not like he—_  Newspaper headings filtered to the surface of his memory, laws shifting, and he finally noticed the matching golden glint from the other man’s hand.  Realization swept over his mind, and every exit route slammed back into his brain, the room’s walls closing in on his chest, stealing the air from his lungs even quicker than he could make a run for the far side of the counter. 

One sweep of his boot to blue-suited legs, and Bucky had time to smash free his bag, out the window untouched.

 _Over the balcony_.

If they chased him, it wasn’t long.

_Down to the next floor._

If they tried, it wasn’t hard.

_Three blocks east.  Four south.  Trains on the quarter hour._

Bucky was out of the country before he thought about looking behind him, before his heart slowed its pounding long enough to seize in pain.

**Author's Note:**

> [At least one more portion will come soonish.]


End file.
